


Nutmeg and Mace

by standbygo



Series: Retrograde [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns. Things have changed. And then they change again. And again. And John has to re-evaluate everything that's happened to him for the past five years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mice

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [肉豆蔻粉和肉豆蔻皮](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2338718) by [RictinaM_Z](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RictinaM_Z/pseuds/RictinaM_Z)



> Sequel to No Sacrifice.

Nutmeg:

\- A sweet spice, commonly used in powder form, for sweet or savoury dishes.

Mace:

\- Dried “lacey” reddish covering of the nutmeg seed; a more delicate flavour than nutmeg.  
\- A form of tear gas.  
\- A weapon used to bludgeon opponents.

Both nutmeg and mace come from the same plant. 

* * *

John leaned up against the headboard of the bed, pulled his knees up and started drumming his fingers against his knees. He took in and let out a deep breath, trying to get his mind to settle down. The clock winked at him – 2:48am. The flat was quiet, with the dull roar of London muffled by the night.

He looked down at Mary, lying asleep beside him. After months of living and sleeping with her, he was continually amazed that this smart, sexy woman could wear an old Snoopy T-shirt to bed, and that he would still be turned on by it. He carefully pushed a tendril of her hair out of her face, and returned to his thoughts.

He felt entirely useless, and his frustration had hit its peak, chasing theories and getting nowhere. It had been three years now since Sherlock’s death, and six months since Mary had challenged him to investigate the case himself and clear Sherlock’s name. They both had hoped that doing this would bring John some closure around his best friend’s suicide, but while the work had brought John focus to his life, peace was escaping him. The more he tried to untangle Moriarty’s web, the more threads he found knotted into the jumble.

_If Sherlock were here, he would call me an idiot_ , John thought _. But Sherlock died without having found Moriarty, what hope have I?_

He opened his laptop, angling it away from Mary so the light of the screen would not wake her.  A few clicks later and he was looking at Richard Brook’s online CV, hoping against hope that this time he would see something that would give away the answer. He smiled a bit sadly at the memory of Sherlock staring and staring at something until – “Oh! OH!” – his face would transform into a child’s surprise and delight as he saw the answer.

John suddenly remembered something Brook/Moriarty said, while babbling about himself: “I’m on telly, on a children’s show.” The realization hit John like an electric shock. If Brook was such a well-known actor to be on a children’s show, why had no one recognized him as such while he was on trial, on the front page of every paper? From his understanding, the forewoman of the jury had had three children under the age of ten, surely she would have recognized him?

As John pondered this new train of thought, he became aware of a rustling sound downstairs in the kitchen, cutting through the hush in the flat. _Mice, damn it_ , he thought. It was a wonder they weren’t overrun with mice with the mess when Sherlock was alive – or perhaps the mess had repelled even the mice. He’d buy some poison in the morning.

John abruptly sat up, listening acutely to the noise. He thought to himself, _That is one damned big mouse. With shoes._

He cursed himself for a fool. Had his research alerted the hidden consulting criminal’s network? Perhaps Moriarty knew John was on to him, trying to track him down, and had sent someone after him. Or was himself downstairs. He felt adrenaline flooding his bloodstream, a nearly forgotten sensation.

Mary stirred out of sleep, wakened by John’s sudden movements. “Another nightmare, love?” she asked muzzily. 

He put his finger to his lips, leaned over and whispered directly in her ear. “There’s someone in the kitchen.”

“Nonsense, dear, it’s just another dream…” She trailed off into silence. After a moment, she whispered, “I hear it too.”

They both sat rigid in bed, listening. Remembering the lessons of observation taught so clearly by Sherlock himself, John could discern only one set of footsteps, he was certain of that. So, it was one man, alone. Whoever it was clearly was skilled at being very quiet. If John had been asleep the noise would certainly not have wakened him, and because of his years in the war he was a light sleeper. The floors of 221B were creaky, but the intruder was treading so lightly the floors made no noise, just the whisper of clothing.

Both John and Mary heard at the same time the sound of footsteps moving out of the kitchen and into the hallway. John visualized the layout of the flat: from the kitchen, the intruder could cross through the short hallway, pass the study to the stairway, then climb up a short flight of stairs to the bedroom.  John quietly opened his bedside table, pulled out his Browning and aimed at the door of the bedroom. They waited, barely breathing.

The footsteps stopped and turned into the study halfway down the hall. After a moment John could hear the faint rustle of paper. The man was clearly searching the downstairs room that John used as an office.

John eased out of bed without a sound. He looked back at Mary, who was pale with fear, and hesitated. He grabbed her right hand and forced it into position around the gun.

 “If you need to, pull very, very hard on the trigger,” he whispered. “There are six rounds. Hold the gun with both hands to keep it steady. I’ll call you when it’s safe.” He looked her in the eyes to make sure she understood. She nodded with a jerk of her head, her eyes wide and staring at the doorway.

John made his way to the door. He was barefoot and knew every floorboard in the flat, which ones made noise and which were silent. He slipped carefully down the stairway, walking along the sides of the stairs to avoid the creaking boards. Peering around the corner down the hallway, he could see that the door to the study was ajar. He stepped into the doorway, and by the light of the streetlamps could dimly see the figure on the other side of the room. The man was searching the closet, his head and shoulders completely inside. John saw his advantage – even if the man was armed, if John caught him by surprise now he would have no chance to draw.

John approached the closet. Being a smaller man, he had learned at school and later the army how to use his short stature and strength to his advantage through wrestling and grappling, using his height and weight to his advantage, and using someone else’s height and weight against them.  The discipline returned to him as he sprang, landing on the intruder’s back and using his stronger left arm to gain a choke hold. With his right arm, John grabbed the intruder’s right wrist and forced it behind his back. The intruder made a muffled noise of surprise and tried to stand.

John held on with all his might, tightening his hold around the man’s neck. The intruder’s left arm was grabbing at John’s choking arm, trying to loosen his grip. John realized that the man was defending instead of reaching for a gun. He prayed that meant the man was unarmed and pulled harder, trying to shut off the man’s oxygen.

Then the intruder said, “John, leave off.”

John released immediately as if he had been burned and backed away until he crashed against the wall. “What? _What_?”

The light from the street shone on the figure’s chest, but his face was still in shadow. John saw an arm, a hand, palm out. He stared at the hand, uncomprehending, unbelieving.

Suddenly the room was dazzlingly bright and John was blinded. He heard Mary’s voice shouting, “Put your hands on your head, NOW!”

John, dazed, obeyed instinctively, realizing belatedly the order was not meant for him. Through the glare he saw Mary standing in the doorway in her white dressing gown, one hand on the light switch, the other aiming the gun at the figure on the other side of the room. John noted with distracted wonder that her hands were steady.

The man had not moved, his arms still out in a conciliatory position. “My dear lady,” he began.

Mary moved the gun a few inches to her left and fired. Half of the desk chair next to the figure disappeared into splinters. John jumped involuntarily. She refocused her target. “Hands up, now,” she said firmly.

The figure slowly obeyed. John’s eyes finally adjusted to the light and saw the tall figure’s face. At that moment, he had no more doubts.

The man smiled. “Oh John, I like this one, very much. Well done.” He turned to Mary, hands still on top of his head. “We haven’t met, I think. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

He turned back to John and spoke casually, as though they were sitting at the breakfast table, not in the middle of the night with a gun pointed at him, and with John still shaken and wide eyed in the corner:

“John, I need my microscope. Where have you put it?”


	2. Impossible

John sat in his chair, staring down at his knee. When had he gotten dressed? At this moment, he can’t remember. Time had shut down. 

The last thing he remembered clearly was entering the flat’s study in the middle of the night and jumping on an intruder’s back. After that it was only pictures, flashes – a struggle, a voice. Light. A gunshot, Mary shooting. Then just a buzzing in his ears.

He raised his eyes, only a little, to focus on the shoes opposite his. Long, elegant feet, expensive shoes. Early morning light from the window framing them. A slight scuff on the left toe. Somehow John knew that this was unusual for these shoes. Back to his own knee, he could deal with that. 

“John?”

That voice, so strange and so familiar at once. He had known it instantly.

“John.” Softer this time.

John licked his lips, a nervous habit of his when his brain needed time to catch up to what was happening to him. He licked them again, and forced his eyes up. 

Yes. That was Sherlock Holmes sitting opposite him. Impossibly. His hair was long and shaggy, his clothes loose on his frame.  But yes.  Leaning slightly forward, staring at him. John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, gray today and in this light, and his eyes and brain skittered away again. A sudden flash of those same eyes, unseeing, blood soaked hair. Jesus, no.

“You…” John’s voice cracked; he swallowed and started again. “You died.”

“Obviously not, John.”

Something electrifying started growing in John’s gut, sparking outwards through his arms and hands. He clenched his hands to shut the flow. Rage. “I saw you jump. I saw you. You made me… I saw you. I touched you. No pulse.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. Abruptly he stood and walked away, past John, to the kitchen. John could suddenly remember every time Sherlock moved like that, going from motionless to kinetic, decisive movement in the blink of an eye. The rage subsided as quickly as it had erupted. Dully he heard noises from the kitchen – water, the clink of silverware on crockery. A few moments later he heard Sherlock returning. He felt Sherlock’s warm hand on his wrist, lifting it, and placing a mug of tea in his hand.

The heat and scent of the tea brought John into the present again, and he raised his eyes to Sherlock as he sat opposite again. Sherlock seemed to be waiting, so John took a sip. He immediately smiled, then smiled more at the look of confusion on Sherlock’s face.  His brain was suddenly less fuzzy.

“Now I know it’s really you,” he said. “You make the most bloody awful tea because you haven’t the patience to wait for the kettle to boil properly.”

Sherlock’s expression cleared, and a tentative smile crept in, then flickered away again. 

“I will explain everything, John. Can you listen?”

John sighed. “Yes.” 

*

“Do you understand, John?” Sherlock asked quietly much later.

John sighed, trying to absorb it all, shaking his head as if to make room for the new information. “Yes and no,” he said. He looked up at Sherlock, trying and not succeeding in hiding the pain in his eyes. “Why couldn’t you have told me? I could have helped. Somehow.”

“I couldn’t, John, can’t you see? It was vital that you, out of everyone, believed me dead. You would be the witness they would believe above any other. They would have come after Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade… or even their families, or Harry. They wouldn’t have stopped, John, if there was even the slightest hint I was alive.”

John paused a moment to absorb this, then nodded slowly. “I don’t want to, but I think I understand. Jesus. Three snipers?”

“Yes. I have… eliminated… two of them. The third is the most dangerous, Moriarty’s right hand man, a man by the name of Sebastian Moran. It would appear he has taken over Moriarty’s network, and like Moriarty, nearly impossible to trace. I’m tracking him now.”

“So it’s not safe yet?”

“No. I can’t reveal myself yet.”

“Well, you can stay as long as you need to, hide out here.” John hoped Mary would be all right with the offer. _I’ll be investing in a lot of flowers and dinners out_ , thought John. 

Sherlock looked away and seemed at a loss for words for a moment. “Thank you.” 

John realized that he was seeing something he’d never seen before: Sherlock embarrassed. He changed the subject to spare him. “So if it’s not safe yet, why did you come back?”

Sherlock snapped back to himself, to John’s amusement and relief. “I’ve gathered some evidence against Moran, but I needed some things from here to analyze it…”

“So you decided to sneak in in the middle of the night and get your microscope?”

“Well… yes. I didn’t mean to alarm you, John.”

 John huffed a small laugh. “Alarm. That’s the understatement of the year. Give me a damn coronary is more like it.”

They caught each other’s eye and burst into laughter.  John’s mind still stuttered in disbelief while he laughed – he never thought he’d hear that baritone chuckle again.

When the laughter had hitched down to sporadic giggles, a thought struck John and he became serious again. “We’re going to have to tell her, Sherlock.”

The last signs of mirth fell instantly from Sherlock’s face. John saw that Sherlock knew to whom he was referring. “I can’t. You know I can’t. Not yet.”

“You know how she is, Sherlock. She’s up here all the time, unannounced. I’m surprised she hasn’t yet today, given the noise last night. If you surprise her like you surprised me, it might be the end of her.”

Sherlock got the peevish look on his face which meant he was about to argue; John interrupted before he could begin. “Your things are all in the flat downstairs. Your microscope. The petri dishes. You think she won’t notice when I start bringing everything upstairs?”

John felt himself slipping into an old dance with Sherlock: Sherlock resisting, John persuading. He knew the next step too, and the _coup de grace_. “It’s not fair to her, Sherlock. She mourned you too.”

A pause, then Sherlock performed his final step to the dance; a roll of the eyes and an affronted, “Fine, fine, just get it over with.”

John smiled internally, but tried to keep his amusement and triumph from his face. He knew that Sherlock had missed Mrs. Hudson dreadfully, the woman who was like a mother to him, that he actually couldn’t wait to see her, and that his stubborn pride wouldn’t allow him to admit this out loud. 

“Now?” John decided to press the point before Sherlock changed his mind.

Sherlock huffed. John took this as an affirmative. “Right. I’ll see if she’s in.”

As John trotted down the stairs, he pondered what Mrs. Hudson’s reaction would be. This would be a shock, no matter how the scene played out. He’d better stay physically near her in case she fainted.

Mrs. Hudson was unlocking her door as John arrived at the door of her flat. He noticed the small overnight bag in her hand and breathed a sigh of relief. That’s why she hadn’t come up, and why she wouldn’t have heard the gunshot the night before. “Visiting your sister, Mrs. Hudson?”

She looked up at him, eyes crinkling into a smile. “Oh, hello, pet. Yes, cab just dropped me off. She had her grandchildren there, I’m still a bit rattled.”

“Let me take your case.” He took it from her hand and placed it just inside her flat. “Um… would you mind coming upstairs for a moment, please?” _God forgive me_ , he thought.

“Of course, love. Mary all right?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes, yes, fine,” John replied, keeping his arm around her as they climbed the steps, with Mrs. Hudson chatting away about her visit. Should he tell her before she saw Sherlock? What in heaven’s name could he say? Before he could decide they were at the top of the stairs. Too late now. He kept his arm tucked around her waist as they entered the flat.

Sherlock was pacing nervously by the fireplace. As they entered he stopped and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, facing Mrs. Hudson, with unmistakeable trepidation on his face.

Mrs. Hudson’s chatter broke off mid-sentence. John braced himself to take her weight. 

In the space of a blink, Mrs. Hudson broke away from John, strode up to Sherlock and punched him in the face with a force that made even John gasp

“Sherlock Holmes, have you the _least_ idea what we’ve been through? Two _years_ we’ve thought the worst, and the whole time you must have been _gadding_ about, not a care in the world for the ones that _love_ you? Hours and hours I wept, John too, you inconsiderate selfish _clot_! Did you even think to send us word? No, of course not! Like a _son_ I mourned you, every one of your things we packed away, every _single thing_ breaking my heart all over again! And all this time… all this time…” Mrs. Hudson turned and collapsed on the couch, bursting into sobs.  

John glanced at Sherlock, who had blood dripping from his nose, then at Mrs. Hudson. His doctor’s training kicked in and he began to triage the situation. Sherlock – bloody nose but probably not broken; Mrs. Hudson – nervous agitation. Strictly speaking Sherlock had the greater medical need, but… 

Sherlock looked at John and perceived his conflict. He huffed petulantly, waved at Mrs. Hudson and headed to the kitchen for a tea towel. John smiled, and turned to Mrs. Hudson.


	3. Nutmeg

John had forgotten how _sharp_ Sherlock’s chin was. It dug into his shoulder as Sherlock pointed at the stovetop. “What the hell’s that?”

John was reminded of Sherlock critiquing his blog – not just the blog, but the content, the grammar, the title, even the font – leaning over his shoulder while he typed.  Sherlock seemed to be not a bit fazed by the fact that he was in John’s personal space, and that John had not a laptop in front of him but a sharp knife and a garlic bulb.

“It’s a roux,” he said patiently, concentrating on the garlic. “Melted butter and flour. It’s the base for the sauce.”

“What sauce?”

“I’m making fettuccini alfredo. Like Angelo’s.”

Sherlock retreated marginally. “When you said dinner, I assumed you meant takeaway.”

“Well, Mary and I like to cook.” He looked over at Mary who was preparing the salad. She, too, seemed to be focussing intently on chopping a tomato. “And you said you still can’t be seen in public, so we stay in.”

Sherlock huffed. “How long will it take?”

“Translation: I’m hungry but don’t want to admit it.” John smiled at Mary. “Less time than waiting for takeaway.” He poured the heavy cream into the pan.  He could understand Sherlock’s confusion, as John had never cooked anything more complicated than toast before moving in with Mary. It had started as a way of saving money, and he had built a small repertoire of simple dishes. Now it was a way of relaxing together with Mary, and he was quite proud of his skill.

Sherlock loomed over his shoulder again. “What in God’s name are you doing now?”

“Grating nutmeg.”

“You said you were making fettuccini, not Christmas baking.”

“Angelo told me about this. He learned it from his grandfather. He just puts in a little bit.”

“I thought nutmeg was a powder.”

“How do you think they make the powder, Sherlock?”  

Sherlock huffed again, and before John could blink, long fingers twitched under his arm and snatched the nutmeg seed out of his hand. “Hm,” he said, examining it. “Nutmeg seeds contain myristicin, a monoamine oxidase inhibitor, and if ingested in sufficient quantity, is a psychoactive substance.” To John’s horror, Sherlock licked the seed. 

“Oi!”

“Don’t worry, one would have to ingest several before the myristicin would achieve fatal levels.”

“That’s not what I was worried about.” He grabbed the nutmeg back and binned it. “Sit. Down.”

Sherlock glared at John for a moment, then sat at the table with a cocky air that indicated that sitting was his own idea and not John’s. _I’m_ s _till the only one in the world that can tell him what to do_ _and get away with it_ , John thought. “Salad ready, love?” he asked Mary.

“All set,” she said, setting it on the table. 

John recognized that Mary was being uncharacteristically quiet. It was to be expected – the last twenty-four hours had been bizarre to say the least, and Sherlock was a disconcerting presence under the best of circumstances. He and Mary had not been alone together since Sherlock’s appearance; he’d make sure to spend some time checking in with her later.

For the moment, however, John felt overwhelmingly happy, too happy to be really worried. He sat at the table and felt a rush of emotion – his best friend back, and this beautiful, smart woman that he was in love with, and all at the same table, plus good food. He was aware that he had a silly grin on his face, and didn’t care. Everything was fine.

Sherlock picked up his fork and smiled brightly at Mary, the smile John recognized that he used with strangers, the one that tended to make people nervous. “I’ve been meaning to say, Mary, you’re a crack shot. Almost as good as John.”

“Thank you,” Mary said stiffly.

“Do tell me – did your husband teach you, or did you begin learning after he died?”

John’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth, and hovered there. 

Mary neatly folded her napkin, stood, and walked away from the table.

Sherlock took a large bite of his pasta and smiled brightly at John.


	4. Negotiations and Confessions

John crawled into bed next to Mary as quietly as he could, though he could see by the light from the window that she was still awake, staring up at the ceiling.  Bizarrely, John thought if he was quiet enough perhaps she wouldn’t be so angry with him. He lay on his back next to her, listening to her breathe, wondering what to say.

“Mary -”

“Did you make up the sofa with fresh sheets for him?”

John blinked – he wasn’t expecting that approach. “Uh, no. He probably won’t sleep. He’s got the microscope set up now, he’ll likely work through the night.”

Silence from the other side of the bed, silence that stretched out unbearably. “Mary, please. I’m sorry. He shouldn’t have said that. He doesn’t have the same internal censors most people do. He just… I can’t excuse him, Mary. But I am sorry he did that.”

He turned to face her and tried to read her face, checking for anger, forgiveness, anything. 

“I thought you were exaggerating,” she said quietly.

“Hm?” he said, confused.

“I thought you had built up this exaggerated version of him. People do that, when someone dies. They forget the negative parts of the person, build them up to be greater than they are. Or the little habits become huge. Ordinary people become saints.”  

John considered this.  “Yes, I’ve seen that. I knew someone whose brother died, far too young. They had fought tooth and nail their whole lives, but after he died Jeff became the golden boy. Maybe I’ve forgotten how many times I wanted to throttle Sherlock, how often he was an ass to others.”

“You haven’t asked if he was right.”

John let the silence linger for a moment. “No. You don’t have to tell me anything, Mary. It’s your story to tell, or not tell.”

Of course he was madly curious. Mary had never mentioned a husband in her past, though she had spoken of past boyfriends. He wanted to think that he wasn’t jealous of anything Mary had done prior to their meeting, but a marriage that he didn’t know about was a bit jarring. He did recognize, however, that demanding details from Mary at this juncture would destroy whatever trust she may have left in him.  

“No, I’ll tell you, might as well.” She pursed her lips, a gesture John knew meant that she was feeling stubborn. He knew better than to argue with her when she made that face.

“He wasn’t my husband, he was my fiancé. Back in America. I met David when I first arrived in New York for my job in the fundraising department at Mount Sinai. He was the Chief Financial Officer, so we were separate departments but met regularly to argue over the revenue figures. After one particularly difficult meeting he told me I had to raise an extra million dollars to balance the budget, and that he had an extra ticket to the Met that night and would I come.” 

“Clever chap.” 

“Yeah, he was direct, certainly.” She glanced at him.  “And don’t get me wrong, we had some blazing rows. He could be terribly stubborn.”

“Can’t imagine why you got along then,” John said.

She laughed, briefly, then turned solemn again immediately with a small sigh. John saw she was having trouble continuing. “You don’t have to tell me, Mary,” he repeated.  

“No, I want to.” She took another deep breath. “We got mugged. When I saw the gun, all I could think was, ‘Don’t get stubborn now, just give him the wallet.’ But David didn’t even get the chance to get his wallet out of his pocket. The guy just shot him and ran.”  

“Jesus, Mary. How horrible.”

“I remember thinking, ‘Why didn’t he take my ring?’ It was right there. Why the wallet, and not my ring? Why David and not me? I still don’t understand. I felt so helpless and I hated feeling that way. I started learning how to handle a gun the day after the funeral.”

“You learned well, and you damned well weren’t helpless last night,” John said. “You were brilliant.” He waiting, feeling the change of air between them. “May I ask you something?” he said softly.

“Yes?”

“How long were you engaged?”

Mary was quiet for so long he wondered if she hadn’t heard the question, or didn’t want to answer. After a long time, she said, “About two hours. He had proposed at dinner, and we were on our way home.”

“Jesus. Jesus. I’m so sorry, Mary.” 

“It was a long time ago,” she said quietly.

John wanted desperately to touch her, to hold her, but he didn’t yet feel that she would allow it. He could still feel the tension thrumming through her body.

“Now, John,” she said, and he could hear the anger edging into her voice again, “how the hell did _he_ know that?”

John knew who she meant. “I don’t know, but I’ll ask him once I finish kicking his ass around the sitting room.”

“No, you won’t.” He could see the muscles in her jaw clenching.

“You’re right, I’m sorry, I won’t ask him, he’ll just want to show off…”

“No, I mean you won’t kick his ass, even if he richly deserves it. You won’t hurt him.”  

John was taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

“I watched you tonight. You’re different with him, you act differently than I’ve ever seen you.”

He felt himself getting defensive. “For God’s sake, Mary, he’s my best friend, and until yesterday I thought he was dead. Of course I’ll act differently.”

“It’s more than that. I can see it. You’d do anything for him.”

John suddenly couldn’t breathe. He remembered Jeanette saying that to him, years ago, just before she’d stormed out on Christmas Eve.  

Mary turned to him, and he could see the tears in her eyes that she refused to let fall. “He’s not just your flatmate, nor just your best friend. He’s the centre of your world, and now he’s back, and I don’t know where I am in your life now.”  

_No_ , thought John. _No no no no no_. He thought of Jeanette, and of Sarah, and Rachel, and Bridget, and all the girlfriends that had broken up with him over Sherlock. The dates who never called him back after he had left in the middle of the date because of a case. And he’d let them all go. _Not again. Not this time. Not this woman. Not Mary_.

He turned to Mary in a rush, pulling her to him.  “Marry me,” he gasped. “Marry me, marry me.”


	5. As We Were Before

John walked along Baker Street towards home, keenly aware of the big goofy smile that had been on his face all day. His face hurt from it but he didn’t care. 

The medical gods had looked down on him today, and not sent him any patients with serious diagnoses – it would have been quite heartless to deliver bad news while he was feeling so incredibly happy.

He had snuck away from the clinic no less than six times today, run over to the hospital foundation’s offices, stepped into Mary’s office and had a glorious snog. She had a board meeting tonight and would be late, but they could carry on celebrating when she got home. Perhaps go ring shopping on the weekend.

As he neared 221B, a slight cloud hovered across his joyful haze. He still really needed to address Sherlock’s behaviour the night before; at the same time he couldn’t deny that the incident had been the catalyst for John’s proposal. In a way, John had already forgiven him but he decided that he should go through the motions of telling him off for Mary’s sake, especially if Sherlock would need to stay for a while. There had been no opportunity to address the issue that morning, as John and Mary had slept in and had rushed out; Sherlock had been sitting at his microscope as if made of stone and had not even responded to John’s rushed “Good morning” and “Have to run, Sherlock”.

John unlocked the door and ran up the steps, attempting to adjust his face from “insanely happy” to “really pissed with you, mate”. Without a mirror he had no idea if he was pulling it off, but it would have to do.

He had a sudden flashback of all the times he’d opened the flat’s door and had not the first clue what he would see: Sherlock sulking in his pyjamas on the sofa, in deep thought in his chair, firing a gun at the wall, or dissecting a fruit bat on the coffee table. He tapped the door to the flat and called, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock was rushing around the flat, grabbing items and stuffing them into a black satchel. He was wearing worn blue jeans (jeans? John doubted he had ever seen Sherlock wearing jeans before) and a flannel shirt. The outfit alone stopped John in his tracks.

“Ah, John, good, you’re back. I’ve been able to trace Moran’s trail with the latest evidence and I’ve a good lead in the Czech Republic. Remember Miss Wesceslas, from the gallery? And the Golem? All Czech. I’ve narrowed it down to the Liberec or Pardubice Regions. Your passport’s up to date, yes? Better bring your gun. There’s a train leaving from St. Pancras in an hour, then we can catch the last ferry to Calais.”

“Sherlock…”

“Where’s my pocket magnifier, John? Ah, got it. Might have to cross over into the Slovak Republic as well, Moran’s not the sort to pay much attention to borders and Moriarty’s influence spread wide. My theory is that after Moriarty’s death Moran went to ground and hid in Czech, and has recently started to rebuild the old network.”

John felt himself beginning to panic. “Sherlock!” 

Sherlock was now emptying his satchel again, looking for something. “I’ve spent much of the last six months tracking down Moriarty’s network in the British Isles.” Sherlock pulled out five passports, all from different countries; he checked each briefly, tucked the Canadian one into his back pocket and buried the others at the bottom of the case. “Mycroft’s people were quite happy to have that lot. I had to send the information anonymously, as much as I’d like the credit it’s not worth Mycroft nannying me if he knew I was alive. He might be getting suspicious now that I’m in London again, but I can lead him on for a bit longer. You’d better get a warmer coat, not your long wool one, too bulky, but the black one should be fine. Won’t have time to eat first, I’m afraid, but we can get you some rolls on the train I suppose…”

“Sherlock!” John snapped. Sherlock finally paused and glanced up at him.

John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, I can’t come with you.”

Sherlock looked utterly confused for a moment, then his face cleared. “Did you let your passport lapse? I can alter one of mine on the train, you may as well have the British one, no offense but accents aren’t your strong suit…”

“It’s not the passport, Sherlock. I… I just can’t go. Not this time.”

Sherlock went perfectly still, staring down into his open satchel. 

John lifted his chin. It wasn’t the ideal way to say this but… “I proposed to Mary last night, and she accepted.”

Silence.

“I know what you have to do is important, that you need to eliminate Moran, but I simply can’t leave her to run across Europe. I think you know why, if you know about her past. I can’t leave her.”

Sherlock’s body was utterly still, but John could see his grey eyes darting from side to side.  John stepped to him and put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up at John, and John saw in his face a new expression, one he had never seen before. It wasn’t anger, or smugness, or even sadness… John couldn’t identify it. Then just as suddenly it was gone, replaced by the superior, lofty look Sherlock had usually used with Donovan or Anderson.

“Not to worry, I’ll probably be able to move more nimbly by myself.  I’ve been investigating by myself for over a year, plus you don’t have the languages, I’ll save plenty of time and energy by not wasting air on translating everything for you…”

“That’s not fair, Sherlock,” John said quietly.

Sherlock stopped, and pressed his lips together into a thin line, looking away from John. He zipped up the satchel, and shrugged into a cloth jacket. From the jacket pocket he pulled a soft newsboy hat and tugged it onto his head. As he donned the clothes, John watched Sherlock’s posture change; he seemed to become broader, rougher. The aristocratic air vanished, and was replaced with the weary lines of a working class man. It was eerie, almost like watching his friend disappear into someone else’s body before his eyes. Sherlock slung the satchel over his shoulder and started for the door. John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve, heart pounding.

“Please understand, Sherlock. I’m sorry. But don’t leave angry with me.”

John couldn’t see Sherlock’s eyes under the broad brim of the hat, but he could see the muscles jumping along his jawline. 

“I… It would appear that I made a mistake. I should not have assumed that everything would be the same when I came back. That you would… that we could be… as we were before.” 

A long pause, during which John’s heart broke over and over. He held on to Sherlock’s sleeve tightly.

“Please don’t disappear again, Sherlock. Can you let me know you’re all right? I need to know that. Just a phone call, or a letter, or something, every once and a while. Please.”

Sherlock looked down at John’s hand on his sleeve, then nodded minutely. 

“Be careful,” John said.

Sherlock looked up into John’s face again, with the same unrecognizable expression as before. “I will.”

John released his grip; Sherlock hesitated for a moment longer, then ran swiftly down the stairs and silently out the door. 

John sat down heavily on the sofa. For reasons he couldn’t understand, his ears were full of the sound of breaking crockery.


	6. Checking In

**_Text message from Anon, March 12, 2:18am_ **

_Arrived safely. SH_

**_Text message from JHWatson, March 12, 7:32am_ **

_Glad to hear. Thank you for letting me know._  

* * *

**_Text message from JHWatson, March 17, 8:18pm_ **

_All right?_

* * *

**_Text message from JHWatson, March 18, 10:20pm_ **

_Just checking in._

* * *

**_Text message from JHWatson, March 19, 3:15pm_ **

_Either you’re still having a strop, or your phone died, or something else that I don’t want to think about. Just a quick text from you please. Let me know you’re ok_

**_Text message from Anon, March 20, 3:46am_ **

_Sorry. I’m fine. SH_

**_Text message from JHWatson, March 20, 3:49am_ **

_Thank you._

**_Text message from Anon, March 20, 3:52am_ **

_Did I wake you? Apologies. Didn’t realize the time in London. SH_

_**Text message from JHWatson, March 20, 3:55am** _

_No, awake already._

**_Text message from JHWatson, March 20, 4:01am_ **

_Any progress?_

**_Text message from Anon, March 20, 4:16am_ **

_Some. Not as much as I’d like. SH_

**_Text message from JHWatson, March 20, 4:20am_ **

_Just please keep being careful._

**_Text message from Anon, March 20, 4:22am_ **

_I will. You too. Must go. SH_

* * *

**_Text message from Anon, March 26, 11:58pm_ **

_Getting close, I think. Will finish this. SH_

**_Text message from JHWatson, March 27, 7:20am_ **

_You BAMF, you._

**_Text message from Anon, March 27, 7:26am_ **

_What the hell is bamf? SH_

**_Text message from JHWatson, March 27, 7:37am_ **

_Deduce it. :)_

**_Text message from Anon, March 27, 8:02am_ **

_Ah. So glad you’re here to keep me up to date on internet idioms. SH_

**_Text message from Anon, March 27, 9:14am_ **

_Thank you I suppose.  SH_

* * *

**_Text message from Anon, April 5, 2:06am_ **

_Are you sure John? SH_

**_Text message from JHWatson, April 5, 7:28am_ **

_About what?_

* * *

**_Text message from Anon, April 6, 12:01am_ **

_Bookshelf. Third shelf, fourth on left. Now. SH_

**_Text message from Anon, April 6, 12:02am_ **

_178/186 – 151/11 – 397/139 – 213/188 – 505/80 – 45/3_

**_Text message from Anon, April 6, 12:03am_ **

_118/24 – 147/206 – 222/108_

* * *

**_Text message from Anonymous, April 8, 4:26am_ **

_All right? SH_

**_Text message from John Watson, April 8, 10:22pm_ **

_Thank you for the new phone. What happened?_

**_Text message from Anonymous, April 8, 10:25pm_ **

_One or other of our phones were compromised. SH_

**_Text message from John Watson, April 8, 10:32pm_ **

_Jesus. How did you figure it out?_

**_Text message from Anonymous, April 8, 10:40pm_ **

_I got a text from you asking where I was so you could follow. I send you a text to confirm and you were confused. The original text was therefore not from you, but from someone trying to confirm my location. SH_

**_Text message from Anonymous, April 8, 10:46pm_ **

_Also knew you would not be so indiscreet to ask my location. SH_

**_Text message from John Watson, April 8, 10:48pm_ **

_Thx. By the way – Jane Eyre? Really?_

**_Text message from Anonymous, April 8, 11:02pm_ **

_It was Mummy’s favourite. I had to choose one I hadn’t deleted and would have the words I needed. SH_

**_Text message from John Watson, April 8, 11:15pm_ **

_Wait a minute – you don’t have a copy with you? You got the page numbers and word numbering from memory?_

**_Text message from Anonymous, April 8, 11:16pm_ **

_Of course. SH_

**_Text message from John Watson, April 8, 11:18pm_ **

_Bloody brilliant._

* * *

**_Text message from John Watson, April 11, 10:50pm_ **

_Mary and I are now reading Jane Eyre thanks to you. She hasn’t read it since uni, I’ve never._

* * *

**_Text message from John Watson, April 18, 11:15pm_ **

_Finished Jane Eyre. Very romantic, your mother._

* * *

**_Text message from John Watson, April 19, 10:51pm_ **

_Please check in. Let me know you’re OK._

* * *

**_Text message from John Watson, April 20, 7:28pm_ **

_I’m getting worried. Please check in._

* * *

**_Text message from Anonymous, April 21, 2:24am_ **

_396/160_

**_Text message from Anonymous, April 21, 2:28am_ **

_43/17 – 283/111 – 20/126 – 8/35_

**_Text message from John Watson, April 21, 2:41am_ **

_Tell her yourself when you get home. And not in code._

**_Text message from John Watson, April 21, 2:45am_ **

_What’s going on?_

**_Text message from John Watson, April 21, 2:58am_ **

_Please respond._

**_Text message from John Watson, April 21, 3:11am_ **

_Sherlock please let me know you’re ok_

**_Text message from John Watson, April 21, 3:31am_ **

_You’re scaring me now_

**_Text message from John Watson, April 21, 3:58am_ **

_Please_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's book code is based on the Random House edition of Jane Eyre, which I figured would be of an appropriate vintage for Mummy Holmes to own. And because I am a stubborn cuss, the page numbers and word count is accurate. But because I like you all, and don't want to put you through that, the translation of the code is below: 
> 
> Text message from Anon, April 6, 12:02am  
> Package at speed under name Brocklehurst
> 
> Text message from Anon, April 6, 12:03am  
> Destroy old one
> 
> ...
> 
> Text message from Anonymous, April 21, 2:24am  
> Careful
> 
> Text message from Anonymous, April 21, 2:28am  
> Tell Mary forgive me


	7. Social Niceties

John froze as he rounded the corner of the staircase of the flat and saw the door partially open. His hand slid to the small of his back and pulled his gun out, feeling the jolt of adrenaline as his hand wrapped around the metal, still warm from his skin. 

He had started carrying the gun again after Sherlock’s last text. John had given up sending pleading texts after twenty four hours, and had been living in a state of sickened worry and fear since. He and Mary had maintained their normal routine, with John trying to hide his heightened anxiety from his colleagues. 

He had sent Mrs. Hudson to her sister’s, and warned Lestrade to grow eyes on the back of his head, without giving the DI the specific reason why. He was grateful that each of them trusted him enough to follow along without question.

Now he gripped the gun in both hands, and slowly ascended the stairs, his back to the wall. 

He was three steps from the top when he heard a familiar voice from the flat: “John?”

John sagged with relief and ran up the last few steps and burst through the door. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock. You’re going to kill me one of these days.”

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, fingers steepled at his chin. “It’s daylight John, and I left the door open to warn you. What else should I have done?”

“Call me, you git. You know, on my phone?” John collapsed into his own chair opposite Sherlock.

“Ah. Well, my phone was damaged after… Well. And there was a bit of a rush to get out of the country and back to England.”

“What about leaving a note on the door? ‘I’m upstairs John, please don’t shoot me’?” John felt himself grinning despite himself as his heart rate came down to its normal rate.

“Couldn’t find a pen.” Sherlock grinned back.  

John noted that Sherlock was relaxed, lacking the tension he had been carrying the last time he had seen him, nearly two months earlier. He also looked a bit excited, like a child with a secret to tell. “So? What happened?”

Sherlock leaned forward, clenching his fists and unsuccessfully hiding his glee. “I got him, John.”

Sherlock’s excitement sparked over to John; John felt it fly over his skin. “It’s over? We’re safe?”

“Yes. Safe.”

John slumped back in his chair, feeling a sense of relief he hadn’t felt since… God, since Moriarty’s trial. Safe. Mrs. Hudson safe. Lestrade safe. Mary safe. 

“Mycroft’s team has him now?” 

Sherlock froze. “John, don’t ask.” 

John felt some of the air go out of the room. “No. Sorry.”

“He would have killed you, John.” Tension was creeping back into Sherlock’s voice and posture.

“I know, Sherlock,” John said softly.

“It was the only way to…”

“I _know,_ Sherlock.”

Sherlock subsided, but John could see tiny muscles in his jawline twitching. John decided in that moment to never ask Sherlock what he had had to do during his exile to keep them all safe. Sherlock would tell him, if he wished, and John would listen.

“Well. This calls for a celebration,” he said. He jumped up and got two glasses from the kitchen, pulled a bottle of whisky from a high shelf and carried them back to the sitting room. He felt rather than saw Sherlock staring at him. He chose to ignore the stare, pouring a shot into each glass and handed one to Sherlock, clinking his glass.

“I thought you didn’t drink hard liquor, John.”

“Only when there’s something to celebrate.” He sat and took a small sip. Sherlock was right, John’s father’s alcoholism had given him an aversion to hard liquor, but as time passed since his father’s death he had found himself appreciating, on quite rare occasions, the taste of a good scotch or whisky. His dad would go through a bottle a week; this bottle had been given him by Lestrade on his birthday last year and it was only half empty.

He looked up at Sherlock, letting the new reality of life settle over him. “Does this mean you’re alive again? You’re exonerated?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose so.” Sherlock looked slightly stunned, as if he hadn’t realized this. 

John looked down into his glass, unsure how Sherlock would accept his next suggestion. “Sherlock, Mary… Mary’s very good with media relations and so forth. She could probably work with the Met, arrange a press conference, that kind of thing. Get the press back on your side.” He glanced up at Sherlock to gauge his reaction. Sherlock seemed unable to tear his eyes from his own glass.

“That would be very kind,” Sherlock said, low and quiet.

John gazed at his friend, his best friend. He had nearly given up hope that he would return, or that he would ever be able to come out of hiding, or be safe from Moriarty and Moran’s network. Now he was here, they were safe, and Sherlock could be declared innocent of the charges against him. And between Sherlock’s last text, and his acceptance of Mary’s help, John got the sense that Sherlock had accepted Mary’s role in his life. 

All the hopes that John had hardly dared to nurture were now reality. He felt very sure of where he wanted Sherlock in his life.  

“Mary and I have set a date, you know. For the wedding.”

“Ah.” Sherlock’s eyes were still focused on his drink. “Very good.”  

“First Saturday in October. Just a small wedding, we’re both of us too old to do anything fancy. Just the service at St. James’, then lunch at a pub.”

Sherlock said nothing. John was unsurprised; social niceties were not his strong point. John knew this, and it didn’t matter. That’s not why Sherlock was his friend.

“Sherlock, I… I’d be honoured if you’d stand up with me. As my best man.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John’s, with that inscrutable expression that John had seen before and still couldn’t define. His eyes held John’s for a long moment, then he tilted his head up and stared at the ceiling. John wondered for a heart stopping moment whether his friend was about to cry.

“The honour would be mine, John,” he said, his voice smooth and level.  Too smooth and too level.  

Regardless, John felt his face cracking with his grin. His heart ached with joy; how good his life was again, after such a long time filled with fear and despair.

“Thank you, Sherlock. For everything.” He gazed at his friend for a moment more, then in a spasm of recklessness, drained his glass. 

“Definitely a day to celebrate,” he said, knocking another shot into his glass, and sloshing a bit more into Sherlock’s, though he had only taken a small sip. He felt a low buzzing through his body, with the unaccustomed liquor taking its effect already, but he didn’t care. Two glasses didn’t make him into his father. 

“Cheers, mate.” He leaned forward to click Sherlock’s glass. “God save the Queen. And Manchester U sucks.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “What?”

John looked back at Sherlock, bemused. “I have no idea why I said that. Jesus, I really can’t hold my liquor, can I?” He took one more small sip and set down his glass with an air of finality; that was clearly enough after all. Strange, he didn’t feel terribly drunk, just buzzed, not enough to merit such an outburst, but he wasn’t used to drinking anymore; perhaps his tolerance had dwindled.

God, it felt like old times, sitting across from each other again. John had a vision of many future times sitting in front of the fire with his friend, with gradually greying hair. _Nostalgic old fool_ , he said to himself. 

He shook his head to clear it a bit, and looked at his friend again. Sherlock was still staring at him quizzically, no doubt trying to deduce John’s out-of-the-blue phrase. John tried to offer a reassuring smile, but then noticed a very slight tremor in Sherlock’s resting hand, how long and shaggy his hair was, and how thin his wrists were, sticking out of his cuffs. Jesus, how had he missed that?

“Sherlock,” he said gently, “how long has it been since you ate?”

Sherlock’s lips pursed a bit, as if holding in a retort.  

“You don’t remember, do you?”

Sherlock shook his head, just a tiny bit.

“Shall we get some takeaway then? Or shall we go scare the hell out of Angelo?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you found that last bit a little confusing, and you haven't yet read the first story in this series (No Sacrifice), may I suggest you go do so now. Don't worry, I'll wait.


	8. The Secrets that you Keep

The room was filled with people, with noise, with activity, and Mary stood in the centre of it all, in complete control. Clipboard in hand, mobile phone headset tucked behind her ear, she directed the bustle with unflappable calm and without having to raise her voice. 

The reason for the occasion was nowhere near the centre of attention; Sherlock was propped against a wall, hands steepled under his chin, eyes shut, ignoring everything and everyone, disinterested in the whole process. 

Mary was stage managing his resurrection. 

Through the door was another room filled with chairs, and the chairs filled with reporters from nearly every news source in London. Cameras lined the back wall. Pencils, notepads, Dictaphones were poised and ready for the biggest story to hit London since Moriarty’s trial. A dull murmuring leaked through the door and added to the noise.

Mary checked her watch and announced, “Right, everyone, five minutes please. Andrea, would you make a final count and make sure we have enough copies of the press release for everyone? Rob, please confirm that the caterers have finished setting up. Can’t have a press conference without feeding them well.”

Sherlock huffed, part scorn, part boredom. But he huffed quietly, and could not be heard.

He half listened to Mary giving final instructions to her staff. Just a bit longer, in another hour this will all be over and I can get back to work, he thought. 

“John, love, would you make sure Greg’s ready, and give him this revision to his statement?”

“Sure, love.” A quick kiss on her cheek, and the door squeaked shut behind John.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open as the silence in the room struck him. The room was empty but for Mary.

Mary put her clipboard down on the table, aligning it with the corner of the table. She carefully unhooked the headset from her ear, and set it down on the clipboard with an audible click. Then she looked up at Sherlock with a long, level gaze.

“You sent them all away so you could talk to me,” Sherlock said, admiration in his voice despite himself. “I’ve underestimated you.”

Mary leaned back against the table and folded her arms. “John talks in his sleep, you know.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise. “I-”

“He told me about you, what happened, before we ever slept together. On our first night together, in fact. But I didn’t witness one of his nightmares until our fourth night together. He woke me up because he was moving so much in his sleep. It looked as if he was pushing something out of his way. Do you know what he was saying?”

Sherlock said nothing.

“He was saying, ‘Let me through, I’m his friend.’”

Sherlock broke free of her stare and looked down at his hands. 

“I tried to wake him, to hold him, but he pushed me so hard I fell out of the bed. He felt dreadful about it in the morning, kept apologizing, but I knew he didn’t mean it, wasn’t aware of doing it. He would have a dream – actually they’re called night terrors – about two or three times a week. It seemed to be the same one every time, because he would always say the same thing: ‘Let me through,’ or ‘Sherlock, don’t’.”

Sherlock bit at his lips, but still said nothing.

“Then you came back, and then ran off again to Europe. I know perfectly well what you were doing, and I’m grateful to you for your protection of John and me. But do you know what John would say in his sleep while you were gone?”

She waited, then said, “He would say, ‘Sherlock, be careful.’”

She took a deep breath. “I didn’t say yes to him right away, you know, when he proposed. We talked nearly all night about the role I was to play in his life. I wanted to be sure that he meant his proposal, that he wasn’t just saying it to reassure me. And I believed him, and I said yes.

“I love John, he’s an extraordinary man. And I am doing this for you, and for him. I have made damn sure that every reporter out there will tell the story correctly, and every one of their papers will tell the story of how you were wronged by the police and by the media. Clearing your name was the only thing that kept John going while you were gone.

“But Sherlock, if you leave him again, put him in a situation where he is terrified for your safety, I will come down on you so hard you won’t know what hit you.”

A long silence stretched out between them, and Sherlock raised his head and looked Mary in the eye. “Not the only thing,” he said.

Mary cocked her head at him, questioningly. 

“Clearing my name was not the only thing that kept him going while I was gone.”

She considered him for a moment, then nodded. “Shall we come to an agreement?”

“Which is?”

“I don’t try to take up your role in his life, and you do me the same respect.”

Sherlock paused, then stepped to her and extended his hand. Mary took it, and they shook, just once.

“Agreed,” Sherlock said. 

“Greg had made notes all over his old copy, he just needs a minute to write them on the revised statement,” John said as he came in the door.

Mary smiled warmly at him as she clipped the headset back on her ear. “Ta, love.”

And one by one, the staff came pouring back into the room, reporting that all was ready. Sherlock buttoned his jacket and crossed to the door. He tipped his head to the side and saw Mary, waiting for some cue from her headset. 

“All set, then?” she said.

“Yes,” he said, then walked through the door into a storm of flashbulbs and shouted questions.


	9. Bachelor

Marrying for the first time at an age when most people are planning the weddings of their grown children was an eye-opening experience. John had been present for Harry’s wedding to Clara, but Harry had taken great pleasure in circumventing every tradition possible, and was therefore not a true basis of comparison. He knew nothing about the wedding industry, and was profoundly grateful that Mary didn’t give a damn for such things either. A friend at the hospital had given her a bridal magazine and they had spent one night looking at it together and laughing themselves silly. In the end, Mary had marched to the dustbin and tossed the magazine, turned to John and said, “To hell with that. We’ll do it as we please.”

Still, even for a simple wedding there seemed to be an awful lot to do. Mary relied heavily upon her friend and maid of honour, Gabrielle, and it seemed like nearly every night they were off getting something else ticked off the list. 

The task list in the bridal magazine had remarkably little for the groom to do, and even less for the best man. When John had asked Sherlock to be his best man, he had done so with the full knowledge that Sherlock would not know or care about such lists, and didn’t expect him to fulfill any duties apart from showing up on the day and remembering the rings.

One thing Sherlock had done was arrange for John’s suit. Originally John was going to wear a suit off the rack; when he told Sherlock this he had… well, spluttered was the only word for it. The next day John found himself at a Saville Row tailor getting a bespoken morning coat. When he tried to pay for it both Sherlock and the tailor waved him away. John felt pretty chuffed about this for several reasons: he looked damned good, if he did say so himself; Sherlock had given him a gift that he could relate to; and Mycroft probably was paying for it all. John tried to thank Sherlock, Sherlock told him to shut up; both were satisfied.   

*

“John, can I ask you something?” Lestrade murmured.

John paused with his notetaking. He wasn’t often able to join Sherlock at a crime scene any more, but when he could, like tonight, it was _brilliant_.

He glanced at Greg, who was watching Sherlock swooping around the alleyway a good twenty feet distant. Clearly this was not meant for Sherlock’s ears.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Is Sherlock planning a bachelor party for you?”

“Jesus. I don’t think so.”

“I asked him and he just gave me _that_ look.”

John smiled. “The ‘what idiocy is coming out of your mouth now’ look?”

“That’s the one.”

“It hadn’t occurred to me to think about that. Obviously Harry didn’t have one. I haven’t been to one since before I joined up.”

Greg turned to look at him. “Do you _want_ one, mate?”

John considered this. “Yeah, I guess. Not a booze up or strippers or anything like that, just good crack.”

Greg sighed. “I’ll take care of it.”

“John!” Sherlock called impatiently.

John nudged Greg and grinned. “Thanks.”

Which is how Greg, Mike Stamford, John, and Sherlock ended up at the Rose and Claddaugh the night before the wedding with a variety of drinks scattered around the table.

John’s stomach was doing odd things. He vacillated between nervousness about the wedding the next morning, pleasure at having his friends there to support him and celebrate with him, and suppressed laughter at Sherlock’s unease with the situation.  

Sherlock had, of course, snorted at the idea of drinking a beer, sniffed dismissively at the admittedly dismal wine list, and had settled for a scotch which he had hardly touched. His coat was wrapped around him so tightly it was nearly doubled over on itself, and he seemed to be pushing himself into the fabric of the booth.

“Go on, then, Mike,” Greg said. “What did you do for your bachelor party?”

Mike put his face in his hands and groaned. “Oh God, I can barely remember. I think we drank our weight in liquor.  Tapped out most of Manchester. We did end up at a peelers’ club. My brother in law paid for a lap dance.”

“No!” John tried to imagine a twenty-five year old Mike Stamford with a lap full of naked stripper.

“I was scarlet,” Mike said, flushing at the mere memory. “Had no idea what to do or where to look. I was so embarrassed I couldn’t look Grace in the eye during the wedding.” 

“My brother hired a stripper for mine,” Greg said. “It was terrifying. She looked like Ozzy Osbourne.”

Out of the corner of his eye John could see Sherlock’s eyes frozen wide in horror. If it were possible to push himself deeper into the upholstery of the bench he would have been behind it. John didn’t look directly at Sherlock, wanting to allow him to keep as much dignity as possible, but filed this memory away for future indulgences in private giggling.

“Oh! I remember what else,” Mike added. “Near the end of the night everybody took turns offering marriage advice to me. There was actually some good stuff in there.”

“Like what?”

“Um, let me think. Compliment her every day, about her dress or hair or something she did. Make her feel special.”

“My dad told me to keep going on dates, no matter how poor or busy you got,” Greg said. “We did for a while but after the kids came we got out of the habit. Once we patched it back together, we started again and it’s made a big difference.” John smiled, glad to hear the good news of the state of Greg’s marriage. Sherlock said nothing, indicating to John that all was in fact well with the Lestrade marriage.

“Worst advice I got was the hoary old one, ‘Never let the sun set on your anger’,” Mike said.

“Why’s that the worst?” John said.

“Because half the fights we had were because we were tired and grumpy, and because we thought we had to resolve the fight before going to bed we just got more and more tired and more and more grumpy. Finally we just started going to bed before we really got going and things improved radically.”

Greg turned to Sherlock. “What about you, Sherlock? Got any advice for John?”

The table fell silent as they all looked at Sherlock. John braced himself for the stream of insults.

Sherlock’s gaze was locked on the table. After a long pause, he said quietly, “Don’t piss her off.”

A moment of silence, and they all burst into laughter. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. 

Greg wiped tears from his eyes and waved for another round. “Hey, look, there’s a dartboard free. Fancy a game, gents?”

“Yeah, let’s,” John said. “I haven’t played since… jeez, since I was in the army, I guess.”

Sherlock suddenly looked even more alarmed than when they had been discussing strippers. “No, thanks.”

“You can play with me, I used to be pretty good,” John said.

“Ridiculous game.”

“So’s golf. Come on.”

“Stupid waste of time.” Sherlock’s voice was rising.

“It’s just a game, Sherlock. What’s the harm?”

“Fine.” Sherlock glanced to each side, realizing that he was hemmed into the booth by Greg on one side and John on the other. With his typical disregard for furniture, he stood on the seat and vaulted over the table, striding out the door of the bar with a swirl of his coat.

John, Greg, Mike and the rest of the bar patrons watched this dramatic exit with amazement. “Ah well,” said Greg, “he lasted longer than I thought he would. Come on, let’s not bother with teams then, just play Around the Clock.”

“Right.” John was not surprised but disappointed. He had hoped that Sherlock would put aside his irrational intolerance for social niceties for at least tonight – and hopefully tomorrow as well – but evidently not. He was surprised about Sherlock’s tipping point though. He would have thought he’d be more uncomfortable about the stripper talk than about something innocuous like darts.

The three men reassembled around the dartboard with fresh beers. John was afforded the honour of going first but had a shaky first round. “It’s been a while,” he excused himself.

Mike turned out to be an impressive player. “There’s a board in the staff room at Bart’s. Helps the night shifts go a bit easier.”

“Ringer,” Greg grumbled, but held his own during his round. “You’re up again, John.” 

John took the darts from Greg and began to aim, but paused, suddenly struck with a faint and tickling memory. He held up one of the darts by the tip, staring at it. “I knew someone who threw darts like this. Terrifying but deadly accurate.”

“That’s a bizarre technique.”

“Yeah… who _was_ that?” John chased the memory around his brain for a bit, then shrugged. “Must have been someone in Afghanistan.” He threw his first dart, but the memory was still bothering him. “Wasn’t Afghanistan, no,” he mused aloud. “Here, in London…”

The memory sharpened a bit – he now remembered long, elegant fingers holding the dart by the tip. _Don’t think_ , he thought to himself.

“Oh! No, it was Sherlock! Sherlock throws like that!”

“Sherlock? No way,” Greg scoffed.

“Yeah, I taught him how to play and he…”

John stopped short. Images and sounds were spilling into his brain –

          _Sherlock in an alley with a thug’s arm around his neck in a chokehold;_

_Steri-sticks over a slash on Sherlock’s arm;_

_A messy hamburger; Sherlock’s long thin finger poking at it; “Don’t they cook it?”;_

_Shouting from a hotel balcony; “God save the Queen!”;_

_Lying tangled up on a narrow bed_ –

“Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus God.”

Dimly he heard Greg calling, “Catch him Mike!” before stars covered his field of vision and everything went black.


	10. Pluck from the Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Shakespeare's MacBeth:
> 
> "Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd,  
> Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,  
> Raze out the written troubles of the brain,  
> And with some sweet oblivious antidote  
> Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff  
> Which weighs upon the heart?"

**_Text message from GLestrade, Oct 6, 11:32pm_ **

_Come back to Baker St ASAP John took ill at the bar_

 

**_Text message from GLestrade, Oct 7, 12:11am_ **

_Get back here you git John needs you_

 

**_Voicemail from MikeStamford, Oct 7, 12:15am_ **

_(muffled) It rang out, I’m getting voicemail… Sherlock, it’s Mike. Look, John had a dizzy spell at the bar just after you left. Not sure what happened, but he’s better now and we’re at Baker Street and (muffled) no, John, you mustn’t be alone… Look, call me when you pick this up, all right? I’d be more comfortable if someone was with him. As soon as you can please. Thanks. (muffled) Sit down John. (Call ended)_

 

**_Text message from John Watson, Oct 7, 12:40am_ **

_Greg and Mike gone. It’s just me. Please come back._

 

**_Text message from John Watson, Oct 7, 12:43am_ **

_I need to talk to you. Now._

 

**_Text message from John Watson, Oct 7, 1:16am_ **

_I really need to talk to you tonight Sherlock._

 

**_Voicemail from John Watson, Oct 7, 1:24am_ **

_Sherlock, I… (pause) (sigh) (Call ended)_

 

**_Text message from John Watson, Oct 7, 1:56am_ **

_I remember now, Sherlock._

 

**_Text message from John Watson, Oct 7, 2:49am_ **

_I don’t know how to deal with this. I need to talk to you._

 

**_Text message from John Watson, Oct 7, 3:34am_ **

_Please_

  
*

John fiddled with his cufflinks as he looked at himself in the mirror. He’d done a middling job on the cravat; he was pants at tying anything other than a Windsor knot and he had assumed Sherlock would help him. 

_No, don’t think about that. Not now._

He forced himself to focus on the cufflinks. Mary had bought them for him, as a wedding present. He’d never owned cufflinks in his life, would probably never wear them again but they were lovely – an M and J intertwined. He traced the letters with the tip of his finger.

He stepped back and surveyed himself. Well, he looked all right from the neck down, the suit fit perfectly and he could now attend any royal gathering without hesitation. From the neck up, he looked like hell. 

He hadn’t gone to bed at all, sitting in the front room on the sofa, holding his mobile, hoping to either hear it trill with a text alert message or the sound of the key in the door. Neither had come. He had sat and looked out the window through the interminable night, watching the moon set and the early grey of sunrise, repeating the memories newly released into his brain.

He hadn’t told many people about the memory loss he had suffered in Afghanistan. It was a normal enough symptom of brain injury and post-traumatic stress disorder. He was grateful to have the memories of the rest of his life intact, and had come to terms with the loss of the six months or so of time from his life. He knew enough about retrograde amnesia to not hold out hope to recover the memories around the injury, and that it was extremely rare for such memories to return.

And yet they had, in a deluge, all at once. And now John had to completely re-evaluate his perspective on himself and his best friend and pretty much everything that had happened to him over the last five years. 

And the most observant man in the world was deliberately not responding to him, avoiding him. What was John to make of that?

He shook his head to disrupt this train of thought – no, not a train, a Mobius strip of thought. Constantly repeating, never ending, and no discernible end. 

He heard footsteps thundering up the stairs to the flat, and his heart jumped while his stomach twisted. Through the nausea he realized that the tread was too heavy to be Sherlock’s, and his heart fell again. He heard Greg calling his name.

“Here,” he called back.

Greg appeared in the bedroom doorway, looking dapper in a midnight blue suit. His eyes formed a silent question for John, and John shook his head. 

“Come on, then,” Greg said, quiet and low. “Car’s downstairs.”

“Thanks,” John said. He cast one more brief look around the room, then nodded to Greg and followed him down the stairs to the street.

*

John slouched in the doorway of the vestry of the church, thankful for the cool fall air on his face. He realized that he looked like the stereotypical nervous groom. Who would believe the actual truth? He barely did.

Greg reappeared in the room; John hadn’t been aware of his absence. “All right, John?”

John heard the question, but it sounded like it was asked under water.  “Huh?  Yeah, fine.”

“Not going to throw another wobbly?”

John was fine with Greg’s assumption that John’s faint the night before had been due to booze or nerves about the wedding. “No, don’t think so,” he said with a small smile.

“You should see the size of hat Mrs. Hudson’s got on. She looks like she’s going to the Ascot afterwards.”

John half laughed. Greg approached, almost shyly. “Any sign?”

“Sherlock? No.”

Another assumption John was happy to live with: Greg believed Sherlock’s absence was due to his selfishness, distractable nature or his general assholiness.

“John… Sherlock has the rings, then?”

John looked up in horror. “Shit. He must. Hell. I…”

Greg held up his hand, showing John two rings, one big, one small, on the palm of his hand. “I just nipped back to ask Julia if you could borrow them. Not sure if they’ll fit but they’re better than nothing.”

John was momentarily speechless. The impact of this small act was staggering to him right now. “Greg, I… Thank you. You and Julia both.”

“It’s just a loan, mind. Just until I get hold of Sherlock and beat the rings out of him.”

John laughed, then looked at his wrist for the tenth time. “Why did I not wear my watch? What time is it? Is Mary here yet?”

“You didn’t wear your cheap ass watch because it doesn’t look right with your suit, you git. It’s only five of ten, and you’ve got to allow the bride’s prerogative to be late.”

“Right.” John gazed out the doorway again.

“John.” Greg’s tone forced John to look at him, and to hold his gaze. “The main point of this is to come out of the day married. Everything else is a detail, right?”

John straightened his shoulders, and suddenly felt a bit less gutted than before. God, Greg was a good man.

“You’re right. Thanks. Thank you.” He held out his hand, and Greg switched the rings to his left hand and shook John’s hand with warmth. “Greg, in light of everything, would you mind-”

“Oh, thank Christ,” Greg said.

John followed Greg’s gaze out the doorway to the sight of Sherlock Holmes, in his perfectly fitted suit, striding quickly through the cemetery towards the church.  


	11. Rings

“Tell Father Andrew to hold things for a few minutes, please, Greg?” John managed to say.

He didn’t really hear the reply as he walked out the side door of the vestry and stood watching Sherlock approach the church. Sherlock’s eyes were darting about and his jaw was set tight. At last his eyes fell on John and his pace faltered.

John tilted his head to his left, then turned and walked towards the back of the building without looking back to see if Sherlock was following. He rounded the corner and leaned against the stone wall of the church, out of sight of the road and the arriving guests. A moment later he heard Sherlock’s step next to him. They stood, backs to the church wall, side by side.

John couldn’t take his eyes off his shoes. After all the urgency and stress of the last twelve hours, he suddenly had no idea what to say. 

“You all right?” Sherlock said softly. “Greg said you...”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just forgot how to breathe for a bit. I’m okay.”

“Good.”  Silence. John heard Sherlock take in a breath, release it, and take in another. He’d never heard Sherlock hesitate before.

“How… How much do you-”

“Everything.” The word came out sharper than John meant it to, and he softened his voice again. “Well, some of the stuff in the hospital is still a bit fuzzy. Especially the first couple of weeks, I guess.” _This conversation is really happening_ , he thought. He gathered courage up from his lungs, his gut.  “Were you there?”

“Yes.”

John still couldn’t look at Sherlock, staring at his shoes and the green grass.  “Why did you leave?”

“I didn’t want to.” 

“Too much for you?”

“No.” John was startled by the bitterness in Sherlock’s voice. “Major Gould threw me out, said I was affecting your recovery.”

“Gould? That prat?”  

“The evidence was on his side. My presence seemed to elicit a… violent response from you.”

John had a sense memory from the hospital: fear, terror; defending himself; throwing everything in his reach at a dark figure in his room. God, he had thought that was a nightmare. He looked up at Sherlock for the first time; Sherlock was steadfastly looking down and away from John. “That was you?”

Sherlock’s silence was confirmation enough. “Jesus,” John sighed. “All I can think about is every time, _every single time_ I told someone that I wasn’t gay, that we weren’t together, and all the time you knew that wasn’t true. And you didn’t say anything. Why didn’t you tell me? Why?” He felt his voice increasing in volume.

“Would you have believed me, if I had?”

The silence stretched out again. “Sherlock, why did you do this?”

Sherlock’s back went ramrod straight. “Because I am a selfish, greedy bastard. I discovered that I think better when you’re around, I couldn’t think while you were away, I needed you there, even if you didn’t…” His voice trailed away. 

John saw the tension in Sherlock’s face. He reached over and grabbed his forearm. “Not selfish. When I got back, I was near to… I could have made some very stupid decisions, and then I met you. Again. And I felt alive again. You saved my life.”

Sherlock looked at John’s hand on his arm, then at John. “You saved _me_.”

They looked at each other, searching the other’s eyes. After a long moment, John released Sherlock’s arm and broke the gaze. He put his face in his hands. “Jesus. Sherlock, I have no idea what to do now. None. If this had happened any other day, I could have processed this, but I’m so fucked up right now. I don’t know what to do.”

Sherlock sighed and turned towards John, leaning with his shoulder against the church wall. “John, we had three days. No. We knew each other for three days, but we really only _knew_ … for eleven and a half hours.”

“Trust you to have kept track of the time.”

“Eleven hours and thirty eight minutes, to be entirely accurate.” 

John smiled despite himself.

Sherlock drew a deep breath. “You and Mary, however, have been together over two years. She was invaluable support to you while I was away. She is intelligent, empathetic, driven, reliable, committed, and you are happier with her than with any of your past girlfriends. 

“I haven’t the first idea how to make a relationship, John. I did this for you, but I still piss you off on a regular basis. Mary provides qualities I am unable to provide. She is worthy of _you_.”

John felt his eyes prickle and cursed himself for being sentimental. He couldn’t look at Sherlock, but from the corner of his eye saw him holding out his palm to John.

“John, I will be here for you, if you wish it. As your friend. With Mary as your wife.”

John finally turned and looked down at the two rings resting in the palm of Sherlock’s hand.


	12. In the Garden of Eden

John couldn’t stop staring at the rings in Sherlock’s palm, his brain in an endless loop of Sherlock’s words. He was about to cry, or hug Sherlock, or run around the churchyard like a madman when he heard a quiet cough. 

“Haven’t killed each other then?” Greg said.

John laughed, a great gust of relief. He looked up at Sherlock and saw his rare real smile, and grinned back at him.

“No, not today,” he said. “Mustn’t get blood on the suit.”

“Glad to hear it,” Greg said, with a bemused smile. “John, Mary’s here.”  

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, with the silent communication they had always had. _Are you sure?_

Sherlock nodded once, small, with a creased and genuine smile. _Yes. It’s all right._ His hand closed over the rings again and he carefully put them in his breast pocket. 

John and Sherlock pushed themselves off the church wall in unison and walked into the church. 

The priest looked up at them as they entered, trying to hide the fact that he had been checking his watch anxiously. “Everything all right, gentlemen?”

“Sorry for the delay, Father. My fault entirely,” Sherlock said smoothly. John nearly burst into hysterical giggles at the shocked look on Greg’s face. 

“Ready, then, John?”

John felt happily dizzy. It was all right. He was ready. Sherlock was here, and Mary was waiting. “Lead the way, Father.”

He heard a rustling from the congregation as he, Sherlock, and Father Andrew entered the church from the vestry. They had no sooner gotten to their places facing the stained glass windows of the church that the organ wheezed into life. 

Sherlock harrumphed very quietly and murmured to John, “Mendelssohn? Really, John? Couldn’t you and Mary have picked something a little less hackneyed?”

John felt ready to burst with joy. “Don’t ask me,” he whispered back. “I wanted Iron Butterfly.”

“What?!”

“Sh. Behave yourself.”

“Don’t laugh,” Father Andrew muttered from the side of his mouth. “I’ve been asked.”

John stuffed his giggles down just as Mary arrived at his side. He tilted his head slightly to see her and felt his heart swell. She looked incredible, in a lacey and yet not fussy dress, her hair loose around her shoulders. 

John had become hypersensitive. He could feel the heat radiating from Sherlock on his right side, and from Mary to his left. He wasn’t nervous at all any more; he felt complete. 

Father Andrew cleared his voice and looked up at the congregation. “Dearly beloved-”

_Thwp._

John glanced up at the priest, startled, wondering for a moment whether he had made the odd sound. Father Andrew’s expression was confused as well.

_I know that sound_ , thought John. _I know that sound, but it doesn’t belong here_.

Time slowed down. Everything went utterly silent.

He turned to look at Mary. She was turned to him as well, also looking perplexed, her lips pursed as though she were about to say his name. _John_.

There was something wrong with her dress, but John couldn’t quite figure out what. His brain was still stuck in a groove, trying to identify that noise. 

Suddenly he felt Sherlock crashing into him from his right, knocking him down, knocking Mary down as well. He couldn’t move, Sherlock was crushing him, lying over both Mary and him. 

He heard Greg Lestrade roar, “Everybody down! NOW!”  

Some sort of bubble popped and suddenly all John could hear was screaming and Greg shouting and Father Andrew saying “Oh Jesus God” and he looked at Mary lying on the floor beneath him and he put his hands over her neck trying to stop the rushing blood and the confused look was frozen on her face and someone was crying “Mary no Mary Jesus Christ somebody help me” and he realized that it was his own voice.


	13. No Light, No Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No light, no light  
> In your bright blue eyes  
> I never knew daylight  
> Could be so violent  
> A revelation in the light of day  
> You can't choose what stays  
> And what fades away  
> \- Florence + the Machine

When John was a boy, and his parents were fighting, he would take a bath. It was slightly quieter in the bathroom, but when the fight escalated into screaming, he would lie down in the tub until only his nose and mouth were above the water. With his ears under water, the sounds from the kitchen or the living room would fade into tidal murmurs and he could escape for a time from his home and the fear that lived there.

John felt like he was underwater now; he could hear but no words, no sounds truly entered his brain and he felt protected in this bubble.

He was dimly aware of the hardness of the plastic chair he was sitting on. His hands were resting, palms down, on his thighs. He didn’t want to look at his hands, they weren’t the right colour.

He heard some voices nearby. He half listened, as if overhearing a stranger in a restaurant speaking on their mobile phone.

“No, absolutely not, I won’t let you…”

“He’s a witness, he needs to…”

“Look at him, he obviously isn’t…”

The deeper voice got louder, and John retreated from the noise for a time.

A gentle touch on his elbow brought him back to the room that was too white. His head took a hundred years to turn to look at Sherlock.

“Come on, John. I’m taking you home.”

Somehow Sherlock was in the bubble with John, and John was glad. “Baker Street?”

“Yes.”

John allowed himself to be drawn to his feet and they walked down the hallway towards the exit doors of the hospital. He felt that the silence was being pushed ahead of him, people fell still as they passed.

A cab was standing outside on the street. Sherlock leaned in the window and spoke quietly and firmly to the driver: “I will give you a hundred quid if you get us to Baker Street without saying a single word.” He stepped back and helped John into the car, buckled him into the seat belt, then climbed in after him. Sherlock’s arm stayed wrapped around John’s back, and John let his head rest against Sherlock’s shoulder.

The sun was setting as they pulled up to Baker Street. Sherlock handed two crisp pink notes to the driver and helped John out of the car. It was a tight fit for the two of them to walk side by side up the stairway, but Sherlock didn’t take his arm away until they reached the door of the flat.

As Sherlock took out his key, John felt he needed to tell Sherlock something.

“I’m tired, Sherlock.”

“I know,” Sherlock said softly. “Just a little while longer.”

Sherlock took John directly down the hall of the flat to the washroom. For the first time Sherlock released John from his steadying arm, and John swayed a little with the loss of it.

Sherlock took a clean flannel, soaked it in warm water and squeezed it out. He reached down and took John’s left hand in his own, lifting it up. John watched, distant but fascinated, as Sherlock rubbed the flannel over his hand, between his fingers, down his wrist, washing away the rusty red-brown crust of Mary’s blood spread over his skin. When his hand was clean, Sherlock released it and took up the right hand and repeated his careful actions, not allowing a single spot to remain on John’s hands.

He released John’s right hand and rinsed the cloth in the sink; the water ran pink. Focusing his attention to John’s face, he carefully cleaned the blood spatter from the left side of John’s face and neck. John listened to the whispering sound of the flannel against his skin and found it soothing. He closed his eyes.

“All right, John,” Sherlock said, setting the cloth down on the countertop. He led John out of the washroom and up the stairs to his bedroom.

At the sight of his own bed, John ached to lie down. “Not yet, just a minute more,” Sherlock told him. He lifted John’s grey jacket from his shoulders and threw it towards the doorway, far enough away so John couldn’t see the bloodstains on the sleeves. The waistcoat and cravat followed. John watched Sherlock’s long fingers unhook the cufflinks from his sleeves and place them carefully on the dresser. He heard the buttons of his shirt squeak as they pushed through the buttonholes. Sherlock’s eyes never left his face, his eyes softer than John had ever seen them.

Sherlock went down to one knee, pulling at the laces on John’s shoes. John placed one hand on the dresser as he lifted one foot, then the other, to allow Sherlock to draw the shoes and then the socks from his feet. How did Sherlock know he hated to sleep with socks on? 

John felt his eyelids dragging down and he couldn’t help swaying as he heard the chime of his belt buckle and felt Sherlock's hands at his waistband. Automatically he held the dresser again and shifted from one foot to another as his trousers slid down and off. Sherlock threw them on the pile of clothing, rose, and took John around the shoulders again to guide him towards the bed.

John sat on the side of the bed and immediately lay down, grateful for the giving softness of the pillow. Sherlock picked up his legs and swung them onto the bed, and pulled the duvet up over John’s shoulders. Dimly he heard Sherlock’s shoes click towards the door, pausing to pick up the mass of clothing.

“I’ll be here if you need me,” John heard him say as he slid into sleep.

 

*

John woke with immediate and full awareness, just before dawn. He was lying in the same position he had gone to sleep in – curled on his right side, right hand tucked under the pillow, left hand extended out towards the empty side of the bed.

Mary was dead. Killed by a sniper while she was standing next to him in church. Bled out on the floor in her wedding dress.

John rolled onto his back and contemplated the cracks in the ceiling for a moment, then sat up and stood.

His muscles ached, and his shoulder throbbed. Shucking the briefs and vest he had slept in, he put on his dressing gown and padded down to the washroom. A few minutes under scalding hot water soon unwound the tightness in his back, and he quickly washed and shaved.

Upstairs in his bedroom he dressed, choosing his clothes carefully: dark jeans, thick cotton shirt, a dark blue jumper, wool socks, comfortable and sturdy shoes. He took his passport from the top drawer of his dresser, pausing for a moment to look at the two plane tickets to Athens lying beside it. He closed the drawer firmly. He tucked the passport into his back right pocket, and took the cufflinks from the top of the dresser and slid them into his front pocket.

He turned to his bedside table. The gun was clean; he hadn’t used it in months but the army had taught him to never neglect a weapon. He tucked it into the back of his waistband and immediately felt stronger with its heft against his back. 

The sun had not yet risen over the rooftops outside the front room’s windows when John came downstairs. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, dressed in his usual black suit and white shirt, open at the collar. He wasn’t reading, or playing violin, or fiddling with an experiment; even his fingers were motionless on the arm of the chair. He looked up at John as he entered the room.

“So,” John said. “Czech Republic?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, not any more. I have traced a possible new arm of Moriarty’s network to Poland, near Lodz.”

John nodded. He pulled the gun from his waistband and extended it to his side, displaying it for Sherlock.

“Yes, we’ll take the train. You won’t be searched.”

John nodded again, and replaced the gun. “Ready?”

“Let’s go.”

He took his black bomber jacket from the closet and shrugged into it, passing Sherlock his long wool coat. Together they went down the stairway and out.

John carefully and firmly closed the door to 221B Baker Street, then walked towards the waiting cab without looking back.

 

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I want to thank everyone who's been following this story, leaving comments, Kudos, etc. It's been fantastic and I really appreciate your thoughts.
> 
> Secondly, a thank you to my betas, Rob and Sarah. Both this story and No Sacrifice are better because of them. 
> 
> This story began as a straight sequel to my first fanfic, After the Fall, and then the world and concept of No Sacrifice invaded. This story ends here, but (drum roll) I have written an epilogue, as I think you and our boys need a happy ending. I'll polish it up and post it next week.
> 
> I'm well aware this story will be "Jossed" in a matter of weeks, but I've enjoyed writing it. Thank you for walking with me.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [肉豆蔻粉和肉豆蔻皮](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2338718) by [RictinaM_Z](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RictinaM_Z/pseuds/RictinaM_Z)




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